


plant your hopes with good seeds

by blackkat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Developing Relationship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentioned Captivity, Mentioned Emotional Manipulation, Romance, Sentinel/Guide Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 14:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14917478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Sentinel, Genma thinks, and it’s not really a surprise—the Shiranui Clan have always produced about equal numbers of Guides and Sentinels—but…Guide, something in him whispers, and it’s desperate, grasping, clinging to the beat of the man’s heart.Guide, Guide, Guide, and Genma breathes him in, feels the stirring deep in his soul that tastes of old things and instincts and wants toreach—





	plant your hopes with good seeds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sprx77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprx77/gifts).



Genma's been in the cell for three weeks when they finally find him.

Everything hurts. The rustle of cloth might as well a knife driven into his ear, and the brush of fresh air again his skin makes him feel raw, like the blast of a sandstorm. It carries scents along with it, washes into his nose and makes him recoil, gagging. His eyes are shut tight—he learned his lesson the first time they opened the door—but even that much of a shift in the light is agony, and Genma clamps his hands over his eyes, hunches down desperately in an attempt to block the sounds of steps like gongs and breathes like sandpaper across metal. The cry that fractures from his throat is pure pain, too much, too _much_ —

There's a hiss of breath, indrawn, shocked, but it _doesn’t hurt_. Hands on him that aren’t like acid. A breath on his cheek, a pulse under his fingers as he falls forward, and then—

Genma gasps out a breath of sheer relief, pressing into sandpaper-rough cloth that makes him wince, but below it is what he wants. Below it is the steady beat beat beat of a strong heart thundering away inside a chest, warm and vital and _alive_. The perfect rhythm, Genma thinks, and ignores the painful scratch of too-harsh cloth as he drops his ear there, counting beats.

There's a moment of perfect silence, and then more voices, but they're drowned out by the sound of the Guide’s heart, covered up by the lower, deeper cadence of the voice right over Genma's head. Not painful, not at all, and there’s a meaning to that but Genma can't quite grasp it.

Three weeks all but alone in a tiny cell, dragged out only to fight for his life in a bare, cold room that reeked of blood, and it may as well have been an eternity. The touch of kind hands in his hair, on the back of his neck and the curve of his spine, is a relief greater than any that’s come before.

The beat of that strong heart follows him down into darkness, and Genma wraps it around himself, drags that unwavering rhythm close to his soul and doesn’t let go.

 

 

Warmth is the first thing that registers, the next time things can. Warmth like he hasn’t felt in a solid month, soft and all-encompassing. There's fabric around him, bare skin underneath him, and Genma is warm right down to the bone, lazy with it, _blissful_ with it. He breathes out, and for the first time since his senses started going haywire there's no pain, no ache in his skull like even the sound of his own lungs working is going to split his head in half.

There's a stir in the body beneath him, and it’s only then that Genma realizes it _is_ a body, only then that he registers his hand is pressed flat to someone’s chest so he can have a tactile sense of the heartbeat beneath. It’s still in his ears, too, sweet and steady, and Genma's own is beating in time with it, which—

Sound spikes, sudden and unbearable, and Genma jerks, clamping his hands over his ears instinctively as he groans. There's no use, though, no muffling it; he can hear every voice on every nearby property, every movement, cacophonous and crushing. Genma groans through his teeth, because it’s moments like this that almost made him give up, that left him so close to just dropping to the floor in that cold room and letting the other prisoner kill him.

But there's a whisper through all the pain, the feel of hands around Genma's elbows. “Easy,” someone says, and there's a faint thread of panic to it but that just makes Genma pause, coming alert to whatever could be a danger. “Easy, just—take it down a bit. Dial it back. You’re at a twelve or something, you insane bastard, some on, just—ease it back. I'm touching you—count my fingers, how many fingers am I holding you with?”

It has the same rhythm as that heartbeat. Familiar, too, but Genma doesn’t have the ability to recognize it just yet. He focuses instead, tries to obey—the fingers on his arms are warm even against the heat of his surroundings, and he marks each one, one at a time, careful and deliberate with the thump thump thump of that heart in his ears.

“Ten,” he rasps, and his throat is dry but the word is still recognizable. “Or, you know, two hands, which would have been easier to count.”

There's a startled pause, then a laugh. “Sound’s better now, though,” his companion says, and fingers skim his hair, tuck it back behind his ear before they suddenly jerk away, as if the touch is something forbidden. “Counting to two wouldn’t have done that, you lazy Sentinel.”

 _Sentinel_ , Genma thinks, and it’s not really a surprise—the Shiranui Clan have always produced about equal numbers of Guides and Sentinels—but…

 _Guide_ , something in him whispers, and it’s desperate, grasping, clinging to the beat of the man’s heart. _Guide, Guide, Guide_ , and Genma breathes him in, feels the stirring deep in his soul that tastes of old things and instincts and wants to _reach_ —

He grits his teeth, drags himself back under control even if it makes every inch of his soul ache to do so. No Sentinel would ever take an unwilling Guide, and this one, who was probably called in because Genma couldn’t control himself, will be the type who’s chosen not to bond at all. Assuming otherwise would be asking for trouble.

“Thanks,” he gets out, forces himself to uncurl. The blanket that falls from his shoulder just feels like a blanket, not some particularly fun combination of sandpaper and acid, so touch is probably fine too. Hearing’s back down, and he can't smell much more than a normal human, doesn’t feel like just breathing in the air will make him gag, so taste and smell are at a decent level.

“Going to open your eyes someday?” the Guide asks, a little dry. “I don’t think even a Sentinel can go around with their eyes squeezed shut for the rest of their life.”

“I thought I’d give it a try,” Genma retorts, but he cautiously cracks one lid and waits for pain. “Bumping into things beats knives in my brain any day.”

There's a pause, and then a hand in his hair again, lightly stroking the strands out of his face. “Breathe,” the Guide says quietly, and that deep, careful voice sends a shiver down Genma's spine. “Picture the dial. All different levels, right? You were up at a twelve, so just…try a two.”

“They only teach us one to ten,” Genma tells him.

“Yeah, I know,” the man huffs, and then, “Just do it already, idiot.”

“I did.” Genma opens one eye, and when his vision doesn’t try to take in the stitching on the curtains across the room, he opens the other as well. Blinks, adjusting to the level of light, and asks dryly, “You insult all the Sentinels you bring back?”

The world refocuses just in time for Genma to see a flood of red wash over Uchiha Obito's scarred face, right up to his ears. He jerks his hand out of Genma's hair—a shame, because Genma kind of wants to lean into his touch like a lazy cat—and falls back against the pillows, looking indignant and embarrassed at the same time.

( _Of course it would be him_ , Genma things, wry, resigned. Of fucking course it would be Obito. His damned _luck_. Sometimes it’s a wonder Genma ever even managed to survive to eighteen as he has, with the world set against him.)

“How should I know?” he demands. “You're the first Sentinel I've ever had to bring down from the edge of going haywire!”

Genma's heart lurches. That heartbeat—no one has used it before. No one has latched onto it the way Genma did, followed Obito's voice like he did. Obito isn't a temporary Guide—he’s just another jounin, who happened to be in the position to help and did. Some greedy, frantic part of Genma wants to press in, throw himself at Obito and tangle them together and _Bond_ because if he loses that heartbeat—

With a groan, he presses his hands over his face, curls back and takes a deep breath. Less than helpful, given that he can smell Obito in the air and on his bare skin—they must have been lying together, skin to skin, for a few hours at least. But—he can manage. He pushes down the urge, the whisper that says _he could be **ours**_ like it has any right to those words. Grits his teeth, then startles when Obito touches his shoulder.

“Genma?” Obito asks, because he’s fucking _kind_ and Genma can't quite hide the hitch in his breath. There's a sharp inhale, a worried, “Genma?” and then an arm around his shoulders, pulling him back in. “Listen to my pulse, come on, shut it out—”

“No,” Genma says, even though it _hurts_ to pull away, to separate himself completely so their skin isn't touching anymore. “It’s not—not the senses.”

Obito stares at him, caught, uncomprehending. Like he doesn’t _know_ that Genma's been watching him with one eye ever since he and Rin and Kakashi dragged themselves back into the village that night four years ago, a jinchuuriki and a living ghost-Guide and a newly minted Sentinel. Genma's seen his empathy scores, though; he has to be aware on _some_ level, but…

If he is, Genma can't see any sign of it in his face. Damn it.

“You're an unbonded Guide,” he says, makes himself smile, quick and crooked, even though it’s the last thing he feels like doing right now. “You might not want to touch me right now, or I'm going to climb you like a tree. Probably try to Bond us, too.”

Obito blinks, his eye wide, expression uncomprehending. Like he can't imagine why Genma would be having that reaction, and Genma hisses through his teeth, scrubs his hands over his face and wonders if it’s okay for big bad assassin-Sentinels to cry, because he’s getting there. He swallows, and says as plainly as is humanly possible, “You’re a match. I want to curl up around your heartbeat and never leave. You should go before I do something I won't regret nearly enough.”

There's a minute of perfect, unbroken silence, and then Obito says, bewildered, “ _Me_?”

“No,” Genma tells him. “The _other_ unbonded Guide in the room.”

Obito rolls his eye, and like the sarcasm jolted him out of his frozen shock, he leans forward. Touches Genma's bare knee, and when Genma flinches back an inch he stops and swallows.

“Rin was in that room,” he says quietly. “She went in first.”

Genma can imagine she did. Nohara Rin has nothing to fear from a feral Sentinel, even one too far gone to save. She’s jinchuuriki of the Sanbi, a jinchuuriki when no Guide has managed to survive the process before, and Genma can't imagine her fearing _anyone_. He doesn’t get what Obito's point is, though, and raises a brow at the Guide, waiting for him to make it.

Making a face like _Genma_ is being the difficult one here, Obito groans, rakes both hands through his shaggy hair. “Damn it,” he mutters, and then looks up, catching Genma's gaze. There's a flush on his cheeks, and the rhythm of his heart is just a bit faster. “Rin was the first one in that room,” he says, “and you wouldn’t let her touch you. You just—we thought that no one was going to get through to you, but then you grabbed _me_.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Genma says, and maybe it’s a little testy, but he thinks he can be forgiven, under the circumstances.

“ _Not_ obviously!” Obito protests. “Just—do you even _hear yourself_? I'm an Uchiha Guide, no one wants an Uchiha Guide—”

“Bullshit,” Genma says precisely, folding his arms over his chest. Having this kind of conversation naked was never on his bucket list, but then, at eighteen he’d kind of thought he wasn’t going to present as either a Sentinel or a Guide. “You're—” He has to snap his teeth shut on the _my Guide_ that tries to slip out. Not true. Probably _never_ true, the way this is going, and Genma had more or less suspected that Obito didn’t want to Bond with a Sentinel, or maybe was holding out hope that Kakashi would pick him, or—

With a sound of frustration, Obito lunges. They’re too close and it’s too sudden—there's no way for Genma to dodge, and he yelps as the younger man shoves him down, pins him to the mattress. The sunlight slanting through the window catches in his scars, turns his face to something beautiful and intriguing, and Genma wants to reach up, wants to touch, wants to feel those twisted scars for himself and—

“There's never been a Guide in the Uchiha Clan before,” Obito says, grimly determined. “I'm _terrible_ at it. Kakashi says I'm the worst Guide he’s ever—”

“Kakashi,” Genma says with complete, utter certainty, “should go fuck himself on a cactus.” And, as simple as breathing, he grips Obito's shoulders, pulls him down until he’s not just sprawled over Genma but _on_ him, bare skin to bare skin. He gasps, and Genma reaches up, framing Obito’s face with his hands.

“I love the sound of your heartbeat,” he says, more honest than he planned to be, but still not the whole truth, which is far closer to _I love **you**_. “It’s literally taking everything I have not to start a bond with you just through _skin contact_. What the hell more do you want from me?”

Obito stares at him for another moment, hands on the mattress on either side of Genma's head, broader form covering him in warmth, heartbeat racing in his chest. Then, with a sharp, almost desperate sound, he dips down, presses their lips together. Instantly, Genma opens for him, and a clever tongue slides into his mouth, tangles with his own, and Genma moans in relief. He wraps his arms around Obito's shoulders, tugging pointedly, and an instant later Obito's full weight settles on him. Soft skin, smooth-slick scars, and the texture makes Genma want to get his hands on Obito's body, explore and catalogue and memorize, but he’s tangled between Obito's arms and is hardly going to _complain_ about that.

“I think I forgot what we were arguing about,” Obito breathes as they separate, and Genma laughs, curving his hands over Obito's shoulder blades.

“We both want to Bond,” he says. “But you're being stupid about it.”

Wry humor shades the slant of Obito's smile, and he leans in, kisses Genma again, light and lingering. “That sounds like me,” he says, and when Genma rolls his eyes, annoyed by the self-depreciation, he snorts. Then he pauses, staring down at Genma, and blows out a breath. “You were feral, like, six hours ago,” he says, more to himself than Genma. “I should—”

“Fuck me,” Genma finishes for him, pointed and unwavering. “Because I've been stupid about you for a lot longer than six hours. Not that you’ve _noticed_. Unrivaled empath, my ass.”

“It’s a nice ass,” Obito allows, and smiles when Genma laughs. There's still a flicker of uncertainty in his face, but he leans down, buries his face in Genma's hair, and the way he clutches Genma to him says a lot more than words can. “The Uchiha aren’t supposed to be Guides,” he whispers, and it has the taste of something he was told, over and over again.

Madara had him, Genma knows. After Kannabi Bridge, after the cave collapse, Obito was a prisoner of Madara, the greatest Uchiha Sentinel. Probably the craziest, too, not that Genma's counting. That kind of thing—Obito's always said Madara didn’t hurt him more than was necessary to fix him, but—

There are a lot of ways to hurt that aren’t strictly physical.

“Maybe,” Genma says, and offers a shrug, lazy and uncaring. “But I'm sure as hell glad that you ended up as one anyway. They’d probably be locking me up in a padded room right now otherwise.”

By the expression on Obito's face, no one’s ever said something like that to him before. His face twists, and he says, “I'm not—I'm not going to let you take it back. You say yes and I'm never going to let you go.”

Genma gives him a bland look. “Oh _no_ ,” he says flatly. “You're going to give me exactly what I wanted? How fucking terrible. Whatever am I going to do.”

“I hate you,” Obito decides, but he’s leaning down to kiss Genma again anyways, so Genma feels pretty safe calling him a liar. “You're _awful_.”

“You should probably be nicer to your Sentinel,” Genma tells him, kisses him back. He’s smiling when they part, and it feels like his chest is full of something bright and warm and sweet.

Obito pauses, closes his eye. “My Sentinel,” he repeats, and the curve of his smile is bittersweet. “All right.”

It’s not exactly a resoundingly enthusiastic agreement, and Genma hesitates, pulls back. “If you really—” he starts.

Obito kisses the words right out of his mouth, and then they're gone forever, because all of Genma's senses filter down to Obito and nothing else. The taste of him, sharp like coffee and touched with sweetness like candy, the smell of him, like green things and warm fires. The feel of his hair under Genma's fingertips, silken and fine, and the slide of his hands across Genma's skin as he rolls them over, resettles Genma on the pillows. The sight of him, flushed and focused, never able to keep his mouth from Genma's for long—

And under it all, constant and steady, the sound of his heartbeat. Genma presses the rhythm into his skin, kisses it into his mouth, carves it into his soul as he opens himself completely, letting Obito in.


End file.
